


untitled.

by herrscher



Category: Elsword (Video Game)
Genre: all of those lines. im lazy.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 08:38:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herrscher/pseuds/herrscher
Summary: uhhhhhh i dont fucking know dude





	untitled.

Sometimes the fear comes in waves, wracks him for all he's worth. Often it's during times he's unravelling and rebandaging his arm and face, covering corruption. Out of sight, out of mind — it's a concept that the humans use when it comes to things that make them uncomfortable, but there's nothing that can take his eyes away from the sight of Henir on his body, one bestowed by the goddess, but now worn and used to the point of breaking. He finds himself shaking, staring into the mirror at patterns that mar his skin, unsightly and out of place. They shouldn't be there, he reminds himself, trying to steady his breathing, to no avail. There's a knock at the bathroom, Executor wondering if everything was alright, saying that Wanderer's been in there for almost twenty minutes. There's not much he can play it off as other than "I'm fixing my bandages and rebraiding my hair", but by the time he's finally worked up the will to respond, made himself not sound so insecure, so terrified, Executor has already moved away from the door, much to Wanderer's relief. He quickly rebandages, eyes caught between the proof of Henir's corruption on his skin and the reflection of the seed of chaos in the mirror, and he finds himself nauseous, but can't place the reason for such a feeling. It's so foreign, so human, and he hates it. Is it a side effect of the corruption, or an effect of being around humans so much, a form of unwitting assimilation into their normal everyday lives? That was what they were supposed to do, for the most part, right? Travel alongside them, recover and restore the El, and then be destroyed when their mission was complete.

For some reason, even that idea makes him scared, uncomfortable. The Goddess hadn't responded to him before, was his existence still needed? Who was to say that Anpassen and Executor alone couldn't just as easily carry out the mission that the Goddess had given them? His fingernails dig into his palms as he leans against the vanity in the bathroom, face downcast into the sink. He feels like heaving, but he doesn't, takes a mere moment or two to collect himself, bring himself from the brink of crying to finally leave the bathroom. The sound of laughter carries from the other room, Anpassen teasing Executor about one thing or another, though clearly mockingly, jovial. The other takes the jokes with a grain of salt, merely responds in kind, voice flooded with sarcasm — one would have to be oblivious to take him seriously, yet Anpassen feigns pain, heartbreak, grasping at his chest in a show of mock offense, and the small chortle that comes from Executor is enough to let Wanderer know that he, too, knows that it's all just for the sake of amusement. He turns to walk away, but Anpassen notices the sudden movement before he can fully move down the hall and back to his own room, seclude himself.

He doesn't feel like he deserves to be around those two. They're perfect, meant to surely do more than fulfill their mission, and he's just a damaged spare. There isn't much that he, himself, can do to help the Goddess. So... why is he even still around? Why does he still walk over to the two of them when Anpassen calls him over, tugs him in between the two of them? Why does it feel so pleasant to be in between them, be with them? Why does he feel happy, yet want to cry?

He prays that, if Ishmael would listen to one prayer, one cry for help of his, it would be to give him another purpose outside of this mission. Let the three of them stay together like this, always like this.

Gods grant prayers in cruel ways, he supposes. Years have passed, and he's found that new purpose. The controller of Henir, the ruler of the void, aptly named Herrscher in absence of his previous name, Apostasia, and the even further abandoned one before it, Wanderer. His dominion is emptiness, hollow, just as he's become, his body a shell and his purpose being the only reason that he keeps it. He breaks it down and rebuilds it, if only to have a form.

Executor refined, honed his power as bestowed by the Goddess. His existence and Herrscher's are like two sides of the same coin, lives meant to oppose and only challenge each other. He's a lapdog, ever loyal and subservient, Richter lacking all of the anger and drive yet keeping the adherence to the Goddess that Arme had. Trading humanity for an existence as cold as his... Richter avoids both of them, if only for the fact that his purpose is more important. He longs for a time before that was a concept that the other kept.

Anpassen was a strange case, though. But... he loves him, still. His warmth is brighter, his smile wider, and his eids are always swirling around him with a kind of heat that nothing else can compare to. Erbluhen Emotion, with his feelings blooming, to Bluhen, fully bloomed... His arms are just as warm, too, and Bluhen almost apologizes, words tumbling from his tongue that Herrscher can't even catch, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't care what it was that he says, as long as it's directed to him, and it can't be anything that bad, with the kind tone that Bluhen's voice takes.

Even if gods and goddesses are cruel, human kindness is an irregularity, and Bluhen is the shining example of that. He's an exemption to the rule, and Herrscher has never been more grateful for anything before now.

Perhaps, in the end, he does thank Ishmael.


End file.
